


Don't Go to Bed Angry

by lastSaskatchewanPirate



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Megatron has no shame, Optimus is a kinky fragger, Oregon's Haystack Rocks are defiled, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastSaskatchewanPirate/pseuds/lastSaskatchewanPirate
Summary: Megatron is frustrated; and as usual, it's all the fault of Optimus Prime.





	Don't Go to Bed Angry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MlleMusketeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/gifts).



> I hold MlleMusketeer 95% responsible for this madness, given the following quote:
> 
> "Subby G1!Megs rage-wanking because he wants Prime to tie him up and fuck him silly, and he’s really pissed off about the whole thing"
> 
> And who am I to turn down a plot bunny of that magnitude?

Megatron was beyond irate. He was leagues past infuriated and had left peeved, irked, and grumpy in the proverbial dust; he was, in fact, rapidly approaching incandescently enraged.

As usual, Optimus Prime was to blame.

It was Optimus Prime who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Decepticon Cause. It was Optimus Prime who led the Autobots against him, constantly thwarting his perfectly reasonable attempts to extract vital materials from this miserable dirtball planet regardless of the impact on the local flora and fauna. It was Optimus Prime who personally met him on the field of battle, diverting him from other vital targets by requiring his personal involvement.

And it was Optimus Prime who was so consistently, infuriatingly, distractingly, damnably _attractive_.

It was Optimus Prime’s voice that disturbed Megatron’s much-needed recharge with echoes of its magnificent resonance. It was Optimus Prime’s strength – both of frame and of will – that stirred reluctant, grudging admiration in the corroded slag-heap of Megatron’s spark. And it was Optimus Prime’s shapely aft that Megatron saw in his recharge fluxes just before he woke, shuddering and overheated, his HUD littered with a humiliating list of pressure warnings from his sorely-neglected interface array.

Adding insult to injury, it was also Optimus Prime’s fault that the Nemesis was currently uninhabitable – after all, it was Prime’s Spec Ops team that had uploaded the computer virus plaguing the ship’s systems and causing the halon fire suppression system to deploy at irregular and unpredictable intervals; and while the halon gas wasn’t actually toxic or corrosive to Cybertronians, the hallucinogenic and disinhibitory effects on their neurological processes were certainly undesirable from Megatron’s standpoint. Even more undesirable was spending another microsecond in the company of his hallucinating, disinhibited crew, particularly once the ship-wide orgy really got underway.

And so it was ultimately Optimus Prime’s fault that Megatron was currently sitting on a rock off the coast of Oregon, feeling extremely put-out and also not a little horny, thanks to the effects of the halon and also the recent memory of Optimus Prime bending over to assist one of the frontliners that Megaton had kicked through a wall during the Decepticons’ last energon raid.

Megatron was vaguely aware that he had been spotted by some of the local organics, many of whom had gathered on the beach in witless consternation and with the hope of seeing a good semi-aquatic giant alien robot smackdown, of which they’d been deprived for the last three months – the Decepticons had been hitting inland targets rather than coastal ones. He dismissed them as irrelevant; the pedestrians on the beach had no way of reaching him out on this rock, none of them seemed to be quite stupid enough to come near him via watercraft, and the two intrepid news helicopters overhead clearly had enough sense to stay out of range.

Eventually, he knew, the Autobots would arrive, likely in the form of Optimus Prime himself, at which point Megatron would at least have the satisfaction of a damn good fight; and until then, everyone could just go frag themselves.

… which phrasing just reminded him that he was, in fact, both irate and horny, and sitting on a rock thinking about Optimus Prime was doing absolutely nothing to improve either of those.

Megatron checked his chronometer and noticed that he’d been sitting on this rock for over half an hour now. Apparently Optimus was taking his sweet time. Well, whatever; he might as well go ahead and take advantage of the opportunity. It had, after all, been a Pit of a long time since he’d last had the satisfaction of release, by his own hand or anyone else’s.

A hum of confusion rose from the gathered organics as Megatron transformed his interface panel out of the way, followed shortly by audible recognition of what exactly was behind said panel, particularly when Megatron allowed it to fully pressurize.

The news helicopters abruptly quit the scene.

Megatron allowed himself a vicious snicker at the humans’ obvious horror and dismay, and proceeded to lubricate his equipment by means of energetically fingering his valve and then fisting his spike with the slippery results. The appalled screaming from the beach provided a very pleasant background soundtrack.

The background noises faded a bit from his awareness as he really got down to business, though. It had been a wretchedly long month with entirely too little down time and too little privacy and far, far too much frustration of several different varieties, and if the Slag-Maker, Emperor of Destruction and leader of the Decepticons wanted to have a damn good wank on this Primus-forsaken pinnacle of rock, then he was damn well going to do so.

Megatron had worked himself through two overloads and up to three fingers in his valve by the time Optimus Prime bothered to show his fine aft on the beach.

Unlike the humans, who had taken a pathetically long time to catch on to what Megatron was doing, Optimus Prime figured it out immediately. The manner in which Optimus screeched to a halt in a pattering spray of wet sand and bladder wrack was almost funny enough to distract Megatron from his endeavors, but he was right on the cusp of overload number three and he’d be damned if he was going to stop now.

By the time Optimus collected himself enough to wade out to Megatron’s sea-girt fastness, Megatron’s hands were significantly stickier and his vents were heaving. The air above him shimmered with rising heat.

“You are, as always, shameless,” said Optimus Prime, that rolling baritone freighted with censoriousness.

Megatron shrugged and continued working toward number four; having the Prime to argue with was adding considerable spice to the encounter, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether the haze in his vision was rage or lust. “Hard to be ashamed of something that ought have no shame attached.”

“Public indecency?” Optimus suggested.

“What public?” Megatron’s voice was a little ragged around the edges, but he wasn’t going to let something like that stop him from a little verbal sparring. “I was alone until you showed up.”

Optimus swept an eloquent gesture toward the beach, now significantly less populated than before Megatron had decided to – what was the term? Jerk off? Regardless of verbiage, Megatron was interested to note that the beach was not actually deserted, and that some of the lingering organics appeared to have broken out an array of binoculars, telescopes, and assorted recording devices. He winked at them, provoking a sudden fusillade of camera flashes – useless at this range, of course, but a nice gesture nonetheless. Megatron considerately shifted one leg to improve visibility, and then gave a little extra attention to his valve and anterior node.

Optimus looked distinctly pained, though it was hard to tell with that fragging blast mask in the way.

“They are sentient beings,” Optimus said, staring off toward the horizon over Megatron’s left shoulder, “and as such deserve to be acknowledged as—“

Megatron interrupted him with a rude noise that tapered off unintentionally into a low moan, and then cleared his throat. “Spare me the platitudes, Prime; what the frag are you doing here? And how soon can I get you to leave?”

Optimus gave him a flat, deadpan stare that would have made a frozen halibut seem emotive.

Megatron stared back, challenging, and twisted his fingers in his valve. The sound effects were almost as rewarding as the sensation.

Seeing that Megatron was resolutely not going to take a nonverbal hint, Optimus yielded with a discouraged sigh. “I’m here because your presence is threatening to the humans. Go back to your base, and I will leave you alone.”

“I think not.” Megatron shifted his attention from valve to spike, still not breaking off the defiant glower. “Your little Autobot spies have left the Nemesis distinctly the worse for wear; I’ll be waiting out the lunacy in a place of my choosing, thank you.”

“You could wait it out in the Ark’s brig,” Optimus suggested in what was clearly intended as a threatening tone.

Megatron grinned savagely and twisted the hand working his spike until he bucked involuntarily from the sensation. “Going to take me there all on your own? You’re certainly welcome to _try_.”

Optimus scrubbed one hand across his face, shoulders sagging. “Why must you make everything so difficult?”

“I might ask the same of you,” Megatron spat through gritted teeth, and then overloaded with a shout.

It took a few minutes for Megatron’s auditory suite to stop fritzing, but once the static cleared he was able to clearly discern two distinct sets of cooling fans running at high speed – his own, and someone else’s. And given that the only other organism in earshot to actually possess cooling fans was none other than Optimus Prime, Megatron felt that the triumphant, slag-eating grin spreading across his face was entirely justified.

Optimus Prime obviously disagreed, but whatever; he could stand there looking constipated until he rusted immobile. Megatron was on a roll.

After a few more minutes of silence – awkward on Optimus’s part, otherwise occupied on Megatron’s – broken only by the screeling cries of seagulls, the rhythmic crash of waves breaking against the foot of the rock, and the well-lubricated sounds of a mech working four fingers into his own valve, Optimus finally lost his composure enough to comment on the spectacle in question.

“Do you normally go for this many overloads at a time?” said Optimus in tones of genuine (albeit horrified) curiosity, and then looked as if he couldn’t quite believe that the words had actually had the temerity to come out of his mouth.

“Not usually,” Megatron grunted. “It’s been a long fragging month.”

“How many more are you planning to try for?” said Optimus, who had clearly decided that tact and discretion were for people who were not currently watching their arch-nemesis enthusiastically self-service _al fresco_.

“As many as it takes!” Megatron realized to his horror that his wrist was beginning to tire, but thanks to the continuing banter his charge was not abating in the slightest.

Optimus sighed as though the burdens placed upon him by horny, shameless warlords were too many and too heavy to possibly bear any longer. “I am simply trying to determine how much longer you are planning to colonize this particular section of coastline.”

Megatron made an extremely rude noise. It sounded like nothing so much as a clogged drain being seen to by an industrial chainsaw. “Don’t concern yourself, Prime. I’ll be done when I decide that I’m done. You standing there staring at me certainly isn’t going to speed up the process.”

Optimus fell silent again, but this time when Megatron spared the attention to glare defiantly at him, he was looking speculative rather than censorious. “You know,” said Optimus slowly, “if you could actually restrain yourself from being a total slag-head for a few minutes, I might be able to help.”

Megatron barked out a short, derisive laugh that almost succeeded in drowning out the squelching noises for a moment. “What, the great Optimus Prime has so little confidence in his ability to satisfy a partner?”

“No, I just have that little confidence in your ability to hold off on being a raging psychopath.” 

That was actually quite entertainingly rude, which meant that Megatron was succeeding in getting under Optimus Prime’s armor with his little show … even if it wasn’t exactly the under-armor action featuring nightly in his dreams.

Then again …

Megatron made a deliberately obscene show of licking his fingers clean while mulling over the proposition. Prime surely wasn’t suggesting what it sounded like … was he? And even if he were, did he really think that Megatron was so stupid as to lower his guard sufficiently that such an interaction would be possible?

… on the other hand, if Prime was sincere – when was Megatron going to get a better chance to blow off all that frustration-induced charge?

Never, that’s when.

“Very well, then, Prime,” said Megatron, and let the slag-eating grin return. “I’ll take you up on that offer. Get on.”

Optimus gave him a flat, dry look that should have evaporated the entirety of the sea lapping at his shins if there was any narrative justice. “Charming,” he said, voice equally flat and dry. “Unlike you, however, I don't have an exhibitionism kink; we’ll have to find someplace at least marginally private.”

Intrigued despite himself, Megatron slid down from his rocky perch and trudged soggily in Optimus’s wake back toward the shoreline. “What sort of kinks _do_ you have, then?”

If Megatron hadn’t known better, he almost would have interpreted the glance tossed over Optimus’s shoulder as flirtatious, even smoldering. “If you can behave yourself, you might find out.”

*

Let it never be said that Megatron was one to back down from a challenge. He did, in fact, behave himself – at least inasmuch as he was willing and able to – because the opportunity to learn something new was simply too good to pass up.

Optimus Prime, as it turned out, was one kinky fragger.

Megatron found himself surprisingly grateful for the support of the sequoia trees between which he had been bound, spread-eagled and nigh helpless; his vents were laboring and optical cleanser was streaking down his heat-flushed face and dripping from his chin, and the cold, fog-laden air of the Oregon coast steamed as it contacted the furnace heat of his armor.

Behind him, Optimus snapped the flogger again, almost lazily, the tips catching expertly beneath flared plating to strike the vulnerable protoform beneath.

“Had enough?”

Megatron – gladiator, warlord – bared his teeth and snarled defiance.

Optimus smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

*

Sunset on the Oregon coast, thought Megatron fuzzily, was surprisingly pretty, when he actually took the time to look at it.

Hours had passed, during which the shouts and ringing crashes and electrical discharges of their violent coupling had quite thoroughly routed every ambulatory life form in a five-mile radius. Megatron had found himself variously bound, suspended, immobilized, and subjected to an assortment of carefully-administered beatings. He had lost count of the number of overloads Optimus had wrung from his body using hands, mouth, spike, valve, and – during one particularly memorable round – feet. He had been ridden, fucked, sucked off, eaten out, and ploughed most enjoyably in every possible way.

Currently he was splayed out on the ground with Optimus draped heavily over his chest, their vents sighing in unison. Megatron raised a heavy arm and moved it just enough to plant his hand firmly on that fine, fine aft so conveniently positioned for gripping.

Optimus stirred enough to grumble sleepily. Little puffs from his vents tickled Megatron’s substructure, and charge struggled gamely to rise once again.

… no, not a chance. The spirit was more than willing, but the mechanisms were underfueled, overheated, and blissfully sated.

“Feeling better?” said Optimus, awake but unwilling to move more than was absolutely necessary.

“Mmmh.” Megatron stretched beneath him, hand still firmly clamped to Optimus’s aft, and Optimus laughed quietly against the broad chest on which he sprawled.

“Are you ever planning to let go of that particular hand-hold?”

Megatron hummed noncommittally and patted said hand-hold with rough affection. “So,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “what now?”

Optimus stirred, and then winced as cables protested and a certain tackiness made itself known in assorted uncomfortable locations. “I would think that a thorough wash would be a good start …”

Megatron snorted. “True enough. I meant after that, though.”

“What affect will this have on the war, you mean?” Megatron nodded, and Optimus sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Several hours of violent fragging does not a diplomatic solution make; on the other hand …” He turned his head enough to look Megatron in the eye. “I can’t say I’m opposed to doing this again.”

“I won’t abandon the Decepticons,” said Megatron firmly, “no matter how spectacular the fragging. That doesn’t change why we started fighting in the first place.”

“Nor will I abandon the Autobots, for the same reasons.” Optimus stared at him, myopically close. “It would seem we are at an impasse.”

Somehow, both of Megatron’s hands had found their way to Optimus’s aft, and he found himself extraordinarily reluctant to move them away. “Maybe,” he conceded. “Maybe not. Shut up and kiss me, Prime, and we can continue negotiations next time.”

“Next time?” said Optimus archly, nevertheless sliding himself across Megatron’s body in a delightful scrape of metal on metal, edges of plating catching and pinging softly off each other in shivering frissons of sensation. “You seem very certain that there will be a next time.”

Megatron leaned up enough to brush the tip of his nose against Optimus’s, to breathe hotly against Optimus’s open mouth above him. “What if I promise to behave myself?”

Optimus chuckled. “Now where would be the fun in that?”


End file.
